When we talk about violent loss, people focus on parents, spouses or children. But sibling grief often goes unnoticed – understood as secondary when it never felt that way. When a sibling is murdered, it’s like someone came in and burned down half of your origin story.

My brother, Lenny, was murdered in Baltimore in March 2000. He was 22 years old. I was a year older. We were close in age, and it always felt like it was just the two of us.

We shared a universe – a language, a childhood, the same weird relatives. Inside jokes that no one else got. Our roots weren’t just next to each other – they were entangled. We were rivals, secret-keepers, co-conspirators.

We teased and pranked each other constantly. That was our language. But the moment someone else messed with him? I was ready to fight. And being his big sister meant protecting him.

When I was told that Lenny had been shot and killed, my first question wasn’t how or when. It was “Where is he?”

Not because I wanted answers. But because I needed to go to him. To take care of him, however I could. That’s what being a big sister meant. It made no sense. But grief doesn’t care about logic. It just wants you to move. He belonged to me.

The first year after his death was a cycle of rage, sadness, depression and numbness. You’d think you’d moved through one emotion. Then it would come back around, just as sharp as before.

Two men, ages 17 and 20, were arrested and convicted. I hated them. I hated their families.

The 20-year-old’s mother was a city police officer. That wrecked me. Nobody showed up for the 17-year-old. There was no one to stand with him.

I wished them pain. I wished them harm. Revenge didn’t just feel justified. It felt human.

“I chose not to care”

When they pled guilty, the 20-year old’s mother testified before sentences were imposed. I almost walked out. I didn’t want to hear her plead for her son. I didn’t want to listen to a mother begging for mercy.

But I’m glad I stayed.

Because she didn’t plead for him. She was shattered by what he had done. She said she couldn’t believe her son had done this, knowing what it meant to lose someone to murder. Her daughter had been killed, too. And now she was the mother of a killer. She apologized to my family.

Her grief mirrored mine. This was the first crack in the rage.

After the sentencing, I saw his mother and my mother holding hands in the hallway and talking.

I wasn’t expecting that. I wasn’t ready to see her – not like that. But seeing my mother exemplify grace in that moment was poignant and profound. It didn’t erase anything. But it showed me what was possible. It’s hard to hate up close.

After sentencing, I saw his mother and my mother holding hands in the hallway and talking. I wasn’t expecting that.

When I stepped outside the courthouse, everything felt different. I felt free.

The weather was nice. The sun was shining. And for the first time since Lenny was killed, I realized something I hadn’t dared to believe: I could be happy again. I could move forward. I had more chapters. I didn’t have to stay stuck in the grief.

The fact that someone was held accountable – that mattered. It was everything.

At some point in the next few months, I felt myself entering a new stage. I called it Indifference.

I didn’t wish harm upon them anymore. But I also chose not to care. I released all thoughts and emotions around them – every one. They no longer got space inside me. I actually forgot their names for a period of time.

Instead, I decided to focus on what I wanted to keep: the shared memories of our childhood. That was all that mattered. And this felt good. It felt normal. I lived in Indifference for the next 20 years.

Unlikely Career Path

Of all the fields I could have chosen during that time, I chose to be a public defense lawyer.

And perhaps even more jarring, I represented people convicted of violent crimes, advocating for shorter sentences or fighting for new trials.

Family and friends had a hard time understanding this choice. But my time in law school and in the courtroom before becoming an attorney, gave me something I didn’t expect: the opportunity and ability to see the humanity in everybody.

Even those who cause harm. Even those who had done what had once shattered me.

Representing the accused, understanding their choices and advocating for them felt like the most cathartic path for me.

I felt for the victims. For what they endured. But I also felt for the accused. For what they had endured that had brought them to harm others.

Courtrooms are filled with trauma from all sides.

Something about representing the accused, understanding their choices and advocating for them felt like the most cathartic path. For me. I wanted to believe that catharsis and compassion could coexist in a system built on blame and punishment.

Working with Victims’ Families

Then after 15 years of public defender work, I went to work at a prosecutor’s office. That might sound like the moment I chose justice over grace. But it wasn’t. That’s where I finally learned and felt peace.

I went back to where my journey began: the Baltimore City State’s Attorney’s Office. As a sister reeling from the killing of her brother, I had engaged intensely with homicide detectives and a prosecutor. Their work – those arrests, those guilty pleas – gave me freedom.

I thought returning would be a full-circle moment. And in some ways it was. But it also became something more. It became transformation.

In this role, I reached out to victims’ families, often decades after the harm was done, to talk about their thoughts on the defendant’s current sentence. I acted as a resource, tried to meet them where they were, and connected them to counseling and restorative justice services when needed.

Their reactions spanned the full range. Some were extremely upset, even horrified, by the idea of reconsidering anything. Others were in the Indifference phase and chose not to weigh in at all. I also often heard a familiar phrase, “I’m a Christian, so I need to forgive him.”

And then there was this, something I never expected:

The daughter of a homicide victim said, “Let him know that I support his release. And that I’m rooting for him.”

I had to ask again, just to make sure I heard her right. She was rooting for him. The teen who killed her dad. To succeed. To live his best life. I sat with that for a long while.

“I’m ready now”

Forgiveness for me, especially in the aftermath of something as permanent and shattering as homicide, wasn’t a clean or noble thing.

It didn’t mean forgetting. It didn’t mean excusing. It just meant that I’m done carrying this weight that I never needed to carry. I can put it down. Indifference was forgiveness to me.

But this – what she offered – this was a whole new level of forgiveness. This was peace. And I think about what she said all the time. One person. One expression. It changed my life.

I got your letter asking for forgiveness. I didn’t respond at the time. It wasn’t the right time.

And so, in marking the 25th anniversary of my brother’s death this year, I feel that I’ve finally reached peace.

The 20-year-old, whose mother was a police officer and whose sister was a victim herself, was released from prison years ago. I hope he is well.

But to the 17-year-old who pulled the trigger, who didn’t have anybody show up for him:

I got your letter asking for forgiveness. I didn’t respond at the time. It wasn’t the right time. But after years of reflection and processing, I am ready to respond now.

And here’s what I want you to know: I’m rooting for you.

• Becky Kling Feldman is a former post-conviction public defender who helped secure the release of hundreds of people from prison. She later served as the inaugural chief of the sentencing review unit at the Baltimore City State’s Attorney’s Office, where she successfully advocated for 50 additional releases and oversaw the review that freed Adnan Syed. She can be reached at bkkfeldman@gmail.com.